The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok #3) - Alice Coldbreath

1

Caer-Lyoness, May Day celebrations

For God’s sake, thought Armand despairingly as his opponent swung wildly, overextended, and nearly lost his balance. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up winning this bout. He feigned a slide even though the grass was dry and parched and dropped to one knee, letting his sword fall with a clatter. Surely even Farleigh couldn’t fuck this up. He watched the other’s eyes light up behind his visor as his competitor bore down on him with wild enthusiasm. At this rate, he’d end up losing an ear to this bloody young fool!

“Do ye yield?” Farleigh panted, clumsily setting the point of his blade at Armand’s throat.

“Watch my chin, for fuck’s sake, Farleigh, you oaf! Of course, I bloody do!”

Someone in the crowd booed and others followed suit. Too bad, Armand thought, clambering to his knees. The crowd always hated it when he lost. But they’d had good entertainment from him this past quarter of an hour and no one could say they had not. He always put on a good show, and it wasn’t like his life had not been endangered. Not with an inexperienced hand at weapons like Farleigh.

He pulled his helmet from his head and shrugged eloquently to the masses. A few lackluster cheers went up for him, though they turned to boos again as Farleigh held up his sword, turning in a circle for adulation. Feeling a stab of pity, Armand grimaced and approached his foe to hold up his arm in a show of sportsmanlike defeat.

Farleigh looked gratified as the crowd cheered for that gesture at least. He’d better make the most of it—whoever faced him in the next round would surely beat the living daylights out of him. As Armand knelt for the royal box, he scanned the crowd for that weasel Fulcher who owed him half of his takings. He was sure it would be a fat purse this time. After all, he had been runner-up at Tranton Vale and placed highly in the last three rural tournaments. No one could have predicted Armand de Bussell would go crashing out in the first round to a nonentity like Sir Douglas Farleigh, even if his form was sadly unpredictable.

“De Bussell!” He gave a start, noticing that Farleigh was hissing at him out of the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he snapped irritably.

“The king speaks!” the other said hoarsely.

Oh. Armand lifted his head and noticed King Wymer had come to the front of the royal box.

“… Grave disappointment.” The King was finishing. “But you must take heart. Fortune may be a fickle mistress, but I have no doubt she will smile on the house of De Bussell again one day soon.”

Armand arranged his face into an expression of brave and noble suffering in the face of defeat. For some reason, Wymer usually gave him some word of favor at these events. Probably on account of his great-grandfather being one of Wymer’s grandfather’s staunchest supporters back in the day or some such thing. Besides, people always did like Armand. He was damned if he knew why.

His gaze wandered from the king, who was sadly shaking his head, to the queen regally waving to the crowd, to the third figure seated in the box, the reviled Northern princess. Armand winced. What the hells was that monstrous headdress, which stuck out like two cow horns on either side of her head? She looked totally out of place in the royal box, jarringly foreign with her barbarous trappings of a bygone age and utterly incongruous in comparison to the sophisticated Argent royals.

It was ironic that it was her forbears, the Blechmarshes, who had been the ones to actually build this palace, while Wymer’s ancestors were merely poor relations. Funny how the world turns. He wondered if the wide and rigid construction she wore could possibly be fashionable in the North. It made her look more like a pavilion than a woman. She looked three times as wide as Queen Armenal, and that peculiar mass of frizzy hair didn’t help matters. For a moment he felt something akin to pity for the frumpy royal cousin. For a few years, it had been touch and go whether she would keep her head on her shoulders after the Northern forces fell. It was dangerous having rival claims upon someone else’s throne. Inconvenient for the king that her claim was legitimate. Armand found himself wondering for a moment if she could possibly be as placid and bovine as she appeared, considering the blood